


About What Happened Yesterday...

by Ewebie



Series: Tumblr Shorts [22]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But like... in a whoopsie way, It's not really fluff... and it's not smut, Look... I will not apologise for writing this, M/M, Missing Scene, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, The Missing Wednesday, This just is what it is... and you know they're basically married, Tumblr short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 13:38:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7441276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Now John I’d poison… Sloppy eater – dead easy. I’ve given him chemicals and compounds – that way, he’s never even noticed. He missed a whole Wednesday once, didn’t have a clue.</i>
</p>
<p>I think I've always wanted to know what exactly happened to that Wednesday... You?</p>
            </blockquote>





	About What Happened Yesterday...

_ Now John I’d poison… Sloppy eater – dead easy. I’ve given him chemicals and compounds – that way, he’s never even noticed. He missed a whole Wednesday once, didn’t have a clue. _

 

John trudged up the stairs and shouldered through the door into the kitchen with a groan. He was actually drenched. Sodden, that would be a good word for it. He thunked the bag of groceries on the worktop and had to peel his jacket off. It was way too tempting to leave it in a pile on the floor. If they hadn’t been out all hours on that case last night, he wouldn’t have been forced up early to get to the store to get flipping tea. Nearly four straight weeks of non-stop cases and things were just that desperate in the flat… They’d run out of tea. 

Sherlock, it seemed, was still asleep. The flat was quiet in its own way, still, but creaking and groaning as all the old buildings tended to. So John hung his jacket and stowed the foodstuffs in their rightful place. He debated for a moment, which need was greatest. Being warm again won out. He was still tired, but they’d eaten at three in the morning. He needed a cuppa, but his jeans were drenched up to the tips of his pockets and his shirt was soaked from where the rain had run down the back of his neck and his sock were making a slight squishing when he moved. So instead, he decided that first and foremost, a bath was in order.

It was probably an hour later, maybe, because there was a distinct possibility he’d actually fallen asleep in the tub for a bit there, before John actually emerged from the bathroom. And even on his way to his room for basically anything dry to wear, he noticed signs of life around the flat. Including the distinct smell of cigarette smoke. “You’d better not be smoking, Sherlock!” he shouted on his way up the stairs.

Food and tea won over sleep, and John stumbled back down to the kitchen in pajamas - yes, pajamas; he’d tried to be a functioning member of society once today, and all it got him was drenched in the downpour. Sherlock was in the shower, and John was suddenly grateful he’d managed his bath before Sherlock’d used all the hot water in boiler. Sherlock shouted something over the sound of running water and pipes, and all John could make out of it was something about… “Is that? Ugh! Dammnit, Sherlock,” John shuddered at the detritus on the worktop. Yes, clearly he wouldn’t be touching that, thanks so much for the warning. 

Food prep would have to be on the counter. But first, tea. Tea… And there was a pot of tea sitting next to the kettle. Huh. He tested the warmth with the back of his hand: still hot. So, fresh pot of tea. Sherlock made a whole pot of tea? John narrowed his eyes in disbelief and elected to pull the lid up and sniff it. No… it smelled like tea. Normal tea. The newly purchased box of tea was open on the shelf and two bags missing from it. Huh. So John pulled down a mug and poured himself some tea. Still looked like tea. He added a dash of milk and smelled it again. Then he shrugged and scooped up the newspaper and headed over to the couch.

Settled, comfortable, feeling clean and warm and a bit more human, John opened the paper on the coffee table and took a cautious sip of his tea. Yup. Tea. He flipped to the sports section to check on the scores. A few minutes later, Sherlock emerged from his room, also in pajamas - shock - still patting his hair dry with a towel. “John, the heat on the hob seems unbalanced between the burners and I find that the kettle…”

John raised a brow as he glanced up. Wasn’t quite like Sherlock to stop mid-rant. “What about the kettle?”

“Tea?”

John lifted his mug in a salute and took another sip. “Yeah, found it. Ta.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “John…”

“Hm?” He shifted, flopping back against the couch. Whatever about Sherlock’s complaints, this was actually an extremely comfortable piece of furniture.

“You… Found the tea?”

John furrowed his brow. “Yessss.”

“In the teapot?”

Well now Sherlock was being ridiculous. He was rather ridiculous most of the time. Pompous git. Like he couldn’t find the teapot in the middle of the counter. Next to the bloody kettle. Little teapot. Short little teapot. Stout. He snorted. “Yeah in the th-the… the thing,” he waved his hand at the kitchen. How long had Sherlock showered? The steam from the bathroom was practically flooding the flat.

“The teapot I specifically told you not to use?”

John frowned. No. That wasn’t what he’d said. He’d said… About the… With the… Wait… “Wuh…” A spike of panic laced through him, but it wasn’t enough to shake the lethargy. Wasn’t enough to get him back to upright.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and flung his towel at John’s chair, crossing the room in quick, efficient, blurry… blurry? John squinted at him as he squatted down between John’s knees. Quick glance and sniff of John’s tea, then he was holding John’s hand. John’s wrist. His face.

“Nuh… Ger’off.”

“John, look at me.”

Why was it so hard to bring him into focus? He could barely lift his arms to swat at the hands cupping his face. God, he was tired… Oh… Oh no… “Sh’lock,” he slurred. “Y’promised.” He’d promised. He’d made him swear. “N’food s’prm… shprnt…” He groaned as his tongue just refused to cooperate. With the words. And the wording...

“And I told you not to drink the tea.”

Goddammit. “Git.”

“Quite.”

Then even Sherlock’s rather distinct features blurred into grey and John felt himself start to slump sideways…

 

~o~

 

John woke feeling warm, the hazy sensation of oversleep and too much daylight when one was chronically exhausted and used to a predawn alarm making it hard to actually open his eyes. He yawned and knuckled at his eyes before squinting blearily at his clock. Nearly nine. Wow. Sure it was only a few hours sleep, but he was normally awake without fail at six.

He muttered to himself and scratched at his scalp then rolled out of bed and stumbled towards his door. It was practically an afterthought, reaching for his robe, but he threw it on and shuffled down the stairs. Bathroom first. Then food. God, he was practically starving. His stomach complained noisily before he made it back to the kitchen. On autopilot, he filled and flicked on the kettle, fishing in the cupboard for a fresh mug.

“John?”

“Hm?” He rubbed absently at his belly as he turned toward the sitting room. Sherlock was awake. And dressed. That was unusual. Though, not unheard of at nine in the morning. “Tea?”

“John, about yesterday…”

John swept some wrapper bits and crumbs from the counter and dumped them into the rubbish under the sink. “Is that the teapot?”

“Possibly.”

“What happened to the teapot?”

“Obviously it broke. John, about yesterday.”

John waved a hand at Sherlock as the kettle clicked over and he found another mug. “Already forgiven.”

“Forgiven?” Sherlock sounded surprised at that.

John arched an eyebrow at him. “Yeah. Why? You done something else I should know about?”

Sherlock frowned. “So, I’m forgiven? Just like that?”

John finished making the tea, tucked the newspaper under his arm, and delivered Sherlock’s mug to the table in the sitting room. “I wouldn’t stick around if I couldn’t forgive you,” he said simply, and crossed over to the couch. “Besides,” he snapped the paper open and flipped over to the sports section. “You’re the only idiot I know that could solve a case, have a cricket bat broken over your shoulder, and get cornered in a pastry shop, only to escape at the last moment due to some super-human knowledge of flammable baking products.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. It was disconcerting. “Ah. I see.”

“You see?”

“Clearly.”

“Hm,” John shrugged and turned back to his paper, reading and sipping his tea in comfortable quiet. “Wait! Sherlock?” He set his mug down to keep from dropping it. “Is it Thursday?!”

Sherlock nodded. “It is.”

“Did I sleep all day?”

“Apparently.”

“You let me sleep for a whole day?”

“You think I wouldn’t?”

John frowned. “I can’t believe I slept so long. No wonder I’m hungry.”

“Mmn,” Sherlock hummed, oddly fascinated by whatever notebook he had open on the table.

“Wait… what did you mean about yesterday?”


End file.
